


for birds like me, every beat's a reckoning

by Acaeria



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Dragon!Tim, Dragons, Gen, Supernatural Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acaeria/pseuds/Acaeria
Summary: Most part-dragons, he knows, experience this at a much younger age– somewhere around the onset of human puberty. When he never had, his parents had assumed that his dragon blood– passed down through his father’s line for generations, the origins of their surname Drake– was simply too diluted to have any major effects. They’d reached the conclusion that Tim might, one day, manifest a few smaller signs of dragon ancestry– brighter eyes, sharper teeth, a minor hoarding instinct– but would probably never manifest fully. Tim had tried hard not to be disappointed by it. He had been Robin by then, and he knew Batman probably wouldn’t keep him on if he knew the truth. No metas in Gotham, after all.He had not expected to be barely sixteen, orphaned, and coughing up frost, years after coming to terms with the fact that he would never be a true dragon.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 341





	for birds like me, every beat's a reckoning

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to go to bed and then the fandom support group discord were like "dragon!tim" and this happened
> 
> not my best work, but i wanted to finish it because i have too many wips & wip ideas and did not want this to be one of them fjdshf
> 
> enjoy!

He stands by the graves, rainwater running down his back, and lets out a sigh, breath misting in the air. “I don’t know why I came,” he mutters, staring down at the carved letters, unreading. “I just… I really need your advice, is all.” He lays his hand on his mother’s headstone, tilts his head back to the sky. “Just had to be a late bloomer, huh?” A bitter, empty laugh. “I’ll figure it out. I always do. I just wish I had someone to guide me, is all.” His shoulder blades ache. His throat is sore. He feels so, so cold.

“Good talk,” he tells the graves. He turns and leaves.

* * *

It starts like this: he’s lying in bed during one of those grey, empty days where he can’t find the energy to do much of anything, back aching from sitting hunched by the batcomputer throughout the early hours of the morning, and his throat is sore, no matter how much water he sips. He wonders if he’s coming down with something, and hopes that he isn’t, because getting sick  _ sucks _ , and almost always ends with him crying alone at 3AM as he retches, hunched over the toilet seat, and that would just be the cherry on top of his already miserable day, and–

He coughs, suddenly, violently, pulling himself up into a sitting position so he can suck in more air between coughs, and–  _ frost _ . There is frost coating his hand. He stares at it. Blinks, several times, and yep, it’s still there. His throat feels raw but also cold, like he’s been gargling rocks coated in menthol, or maybe just ice chips, but  _ ice chips _ doesn’t fully express how sucky this feels, and… 

Huh. 

His hand is covered in frost, and his throat hurts. 

Most part-dragons, he knows, experience this at a much younger age– somewhere around the onset of human puberty. When he never had, his parents had assumed that his dragon blood– passed down through his father’s line for generations, the origins of their surname _ Drake _ – was simply too diluted to have any major effects. They’d reached the conclusion that Tim might, one day, manifest a few smaller signs of dragon ancestry– brighter eyes, sharper teeth, a minor hoarding instinct– but would probably never manifest fully. Tim had tried hard not to be disappointed by it. He had been Robin by then, and he knew Batman probably wouldn’t keep him on if he knew the truth. No metas in Gotham, after all.

He had not expected to be barely sixteen, orphaned, and coughing up frost, years after coming to terms with the fact that he would never be a true dragon. 

He flexes his hand, on which the frost is slowly melting to water, and all he can think is that he is going to be so screwed when Batman finds out.

* * *

So, dragon puberty  _ sucks _ .

Human puberty also sucks, but in an entirely different way. Dragon puberty  _ hurts _ . His teeth ache and his throat is sore and he can’t move his arms too far because his shoulder blades are on  _ fire _ and any time he’s faced with light brighter than his phone screen on its lowest setting he hisses like a cat or a stereotypical vampire or just a teenager who spends too much time in the dark, which, technically, he is, but normally light doesn’t hurt him like  _ this _ . He feels utterly miserable and spends most of his time curled up in bed under a mountain of blankets because he’s cold, too. He’s always run a little colder than most ordinary humans– ice dragon ancestry, even when not fully manifested, does have some effects– but this is different. It feels like his bones are made of ice. His teeth chatter painfully together, which just exacerbates the pain there more, and yeah, Tim hates this. Hates this a lot.

He locks his door and tells the others he’s sick and refuses medical attention even when Alfred  _ insists _ , really Master Tim, your health is  _ important _ , and eventually they give up and just leave him plates of food and medicine outside his door at mealtimes, and he appreciates it. 

After the first week, the pain dies down, like, a lot, and he’s finally able to drag himself out of bed for longer than ten minutes at a time. He stands in front of the mirror and examines himself, looking at the slightly-pointed canines, the brighter pigment in his eyes, the sheer exhaustion in his face. There are lumps on his shoulder blades, painful to the touch, and he’s not looking forward to the wings sprouting, but from what he remembers his parents telling him, it’ll be a while before that happens. 

He glances down at his hands, experimentally flexing them in the way he’d seen his father do so, and sure enough, the tips of his fingers sharpen into claws. He swallows, staring at them, and then relaxes his hands, and they slide back into fingers as if they had never been anything else.

Okay.  _ Okay _ . He can deal with this. Probably. Maybe. 

It’s fine. He just has to keep it a secret from Batman. Piece of cake.

...Oh, Tim is  _ so _ screwed. 

* * *

He– manages it? Somehow.  _ Somehow _ , everyone buys his apologies and excuses about not liking people around while he’s sick if he can help it, and they don’t notice his sharper teeth and brighter eyes, and if they notice that he’s stiff and sore they blame it on him being bedridden for a week, or, later, just the regular aches of training and patrol, and  _ holy shit _ , he forgives his friends for all their “world’s greatest detective” jabs because this is really just an impressive show of ignorance and he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

Life goes on. Tim’s teeth grow little by little but everyone sees him too often to notice, and he makes sure never to smile with them on show in photos anymore, just in case. He wears his mask a little more than necessary in the cave, to hide the way his eyes reflect the light, and no one comments on it. He carries around blankets and wears large sweaters and drinks a lot of coffee to offset the cold that’s made its home in his bones and he gets a little teasing, but it’s not a suspicious kind, and sometimes Cass or Steph will drape themselves over his shoulders or huddle under the blanket with him and tell him that he’s too cold and they’re keeping him warm with their body heat, and he feels warm inside in a way that doesn’t quite offset his normal chill but nearly manages it. 

He lies through his too-sharp teeth and keeps his secrets so close to his chest that no one else can tell he has them and he gets through life one day at a time, until it’s almost second nature.

And then Bruce dies.

* * *

Of course, his second major bout of dragon puberty couldn’t happen when he was somewhere safe and alone and comfortable.  _ Nooo _ . It had to happen when he was out in the desert with a bunch of  _ assassins _ .  _ League assassins _ . Because his dragon ancestors apparently hate him.

He wakes up one morning freezing cold despite the heat and a pulsating pain emanating from the wing-buds on his shoulder blades and thinks  _ fuck _ , stifling a groan as he rolls over to relieve the pressure on his back. Z is already awake, because he’s one of those annoying morning people, sorting through his pack. He notices Tim’s awake, and shoots him a small smile, which quickly melts into concern.

“You okay?” he asks. Tim nods, which just makes his achy head swim, and buries his face in his pillow with a soft moan. He hears Z stand, walking over to his bedroll and gently maneuvering Tim’s head so that he can place the back of his hand against Tim’s forehead. He frowns. “Jeez, kid, you’re freezing.”

“‘M fine,” Tim mumbles. “Family heirloom.” 

There’s a confused pause, followed by, “It’s some kind of hereditary illness?”

“Mm-hm. ‘S fine. Give me a couple minutes to wake up, we should be good to go.”   
“I don’t know,” Z says, hesitant. “If you’re sick…”

“We’re so close, Z,” Tim says, forcing his eyes to open wide enough to properly make eye contact with the man. “I can’t stop now. Not for anything.”   
Z sighs. “Fine. But if you collapse, I’m not carrying you.”

Tim smirks at that. “Get Pru to do it,” he says. “She owes me, after what happened in Yemen.”

Z grins. “If you’re well enough to be vindictive, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

* * *

That evening, they reach the cave where Tim finds the first concrete piece of evidence that Tim is alive. He feels like shit, his shoulders aching, body wracked with uncontrollable shivers, but in that moment, all of it is worth it for this. 

Then Widower shows up, and everything goes to shit.

* * *

Tim is on the ground and wheezing and covered in his own blood but all of that is second to the fact that he’s alive– how on earth is he  _ alive? _ – and the fiery pain in his shoulderblades. He rolls over onto his stomach, wincing as he jostles the hole in his abdomen, and reaches back, fumbling for the clasps on his suit. His fingers are sticky and slick with blood and it takes him agonising extra seconds to achieve his goal, and then suddenly the pressure on his back is gone and replaced by a feeling like knives sliding through his skin and–

“What the fuck,” a harsh voice whispers, and his eyes flicker up to see Pru, propped up against their car, clutching her bloody throat and staring at him with wide eyes. He offers her a dazed smile but it turns into more of a grimace as bone and leathery flesh start to pull themselves out of the gashes on his back. 

“Family heirloom,” he tells her, and then screams as a knob of bone catches in the wrong place inside of him and his body convulses. The wing, seemingly acting on some ancient instinct, attempts to continue pushing its way out, but it’s  _ wrong _ , it’s at the wrong angle and all Tim can feel is panic and pain and  _ oh god _ – 

“Red? Red, what’s happening?” Pru’s voice, closer now, and he opens his eyes– when had he closed them?– to see her crawling towards him, leaving a dark stain in the sand behind her. 

“Stuck,” he gasps. “Angle’s wrong, it’s–” He cuts himself off with another scream, pushing his head down into the sand and trying to just  _ breathe _ , fuck, he  _ hates _ this. 

“Which one?” she asks, almost on top of him now. 

“Right,” he whispers. He feels calloused fingers trace the edge of the bloody slit in his skin and yelps instinctively. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Pru mutters, not sounding all that sorry. “Fuck, kid, this is– this is a mess.” Tim lets out a half-sob, half-laugh. Pru sucks in her breath through her teeth, tenses. “This is gonna hurt. You ready?”

Tim takes a moment to breathe, then nods. “Do it,” he whispers. 

Pru plunges her fingers into the wound, and Tim  _ screams _ . The fingers find the sensitive edge of a wing, trace it down to the problem area, and Tim’s screams have turned soundless, into ragged, agonised breaths that resemble hyperventilating more than anything. Pru is cursing up a storm under her breath as she pushes the wing down, further into his body, and then pulls it to the side and up and– 

It’s out. It’s out, and just like that the sharp, agonising pains lessen to a dull throb, and Tim lies there sobbing and shaking, weak from blood loss and dizzy from the pain and nauseous from the poison, and just like that his relief at having the wings freed is offset by his panic as he remembers, oh yeah, he’s  _ dying _ . 

“Fuck, kid,” Pru coughs. “What the fuck?”

“Dragon ancestry,” Tim whispers, throat too raw from screaming to speak much louder than that.

“Of course,” Pru says, and laughs, a little hysterical. “You’re a dragon. Makes perfect sense.”

Tim ignores her, and pushes himself up to his knees. His vision blacks out for a moment, and the next thing he knows, Pru is holding him up by the shoulders, a little desperate as she calls, “Red? Red!”

“Here,” he croaks. “Gonna… Gonna get us out of here.”   
“How?” Pru asks. “You gonna drive with more of your blood on your outside than your inside?” 

She’s managed to staunch the bleeding on her own wound, he notices, a scrap of fabric tied around her throat. He shakes his head.

“Too slow,” he tells her. “Got… Got a faster way.”   
“You–” Her incredulousness turns into alarm as she realises what he’s saying. “Nuh-uh. No way. Those wings tore themselves out of your back literally two minutes ago, you’ve never flown before, there’s no way I’m letting you carry me–”

“Do you trust me?” he asks her, and she stares at him, disbelieving, before sighing and shaking her head. 

“Un-fucking-fortunately,” she says. “How’re we going to do this?”

Tim doesn’t know, but he doesn’t tell her that. He’s never flown before, but he’s sure it can’t be that hard. “Just hold on,” he tells her. 

* * *

He doesn’t remember much of that first flight, later. It passes by in a blur of wind and pain and Prudence’s panicked yelling, and the next thing he knows he’s on a hotel bed, fumbling for a communicator, but the world is spinning and his movements are sluggish and he can’t– he can’t– 

He collapses just as the door opens and someone screams.

* * *

Ra’s al Ghul  _ knows _ . He knows, and so does like, the entirety of the League, and Tim might be panicking, a little, because _ no one was supposed to know _ . He keeps his wings folded against his back, under the suit, but he can feel gazes burning into his shoulder blades, and he knows they  _ know _ , and– and so does Tam Fox, and this whole situation is just spiralling so rapidly out of his control. 

“So, the wings,” Tam says, and  _ she _ sounds a little panicked too, which, fair, they’re literally in an assassin base, and she has no idea what’s going on either, but he’s glad that they’re both freaking out in this situation. It’d suck if she were somehow totally calm and he was the only one falling apart. 

“They’re new,” he tells her. 

“Oh, cool. Cool.” Yeah, she’s definitely just as freaked out as he is. He thinks he might be hiding it better, though. “Is that part of–” She gestures around wildly, and he assumes that means  _ this clusterfuck of a situation we’ve found ourselves in. _

“No, it’s–” he winces– “hereditary.” 

“Hereditary? What, are you part dragon, or something?” He shoots her a look, and she gapes. “You’re  _ part dragon _ .” 

“Unfortunately.”   
_ “What is happening?” _ It’s a whisper, and he’s pretty sure it isn’t intended for him to hear, so he doesn’t reply. Instead he says,

“You can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

She laughs, a little hysterical. “Who am I going to tell? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been kidnapped! By weird ninja assassins! Who are definitely going to kill us!”

“They’re not going to kill us.”  _ I hope _ . “I’ll get you home, Tam, don’t worry.”

_ “Don’t worry!” _ she repeats, a hiss through her teeth. “Don’t worry, Tam, it’s fine, this is totally normal! Oh god, it probably is for you, isn’t it. Is your entire life like this?”

He smiles a little at that, but it feels hollow on his face. His entire life is not like this, but he’s not going to tell  _ her _ that. “Just trust me. I’ll get us out of here.”

“Oh, god. We’re totally going to die.”

* * *

They don’t die. Tim feels like saying  _ I told you so _ , but Tam is still shaking and a little hysterical about the whole being-attacked-by-the-Council-of-Spiders thing, so he refrains.

“I was serious, by the way,” he tells her, on the flight back to Gotham.

“About what?” she asks. 

“The wings thing. You can’t mention it to anyone.”

Tam frowns. “Is it really that big a deal? Even more than the whole…” She gestures at his Red Robin costume. Tim nods.

“I mean, I’d really prefer it if you didn’t spill my secret identity, but the dragon thing… Not even Batman knows, and I don’t want him to find out.”

“Okay,” she says, still sounding doubtful. “Can you even  _ keep _ this a secret from Batman?”

Tim snorts. “Trust me, he’s surprisingly obtuse when he wants to be. World’s greatest detective, but he can’t see right under his nose.”

* * *

Of course, asking Tam to keep the secret almost becomes pointless when Ra’s, absolute snake, throws him out of the window, and his two choices become  _ fly _ or  _ die _ . Just as he’s reaching for the fastenings on his suit, he collides with someone’s chest, and arms are wrapping around him, and it’s just Dick, grinning down at him, and Tim has just enough time to feel relief before he passes out.

When he wakes, he’s on a gurney in the cave, still in his suit against all odds, and then he sees Tam in the crowd surrounding him smiling at him a little nervously, and her gaze flickers over to where Alfred is glaring at her, and he smiles back, nodding gratefully, and then his family are on him, their questions overlapping one another as they chatter and ask questions and attempt to fill him in, and he thinks that maybe everything is going to be okay. 

* * *

He moves out, Bruce comes back, he keeps his wings close to his skin and no one ever suspects a thing. He intends it to stay that way forever, though he expects that he’ll probably be outed during some kind of chaotic emergency that he’s definitely not looking forward to.

Then Duke happens.

Duke Thomas, the Signal, Batman’s newest partner, a  _ meta _ . An exception to the famous no metas in Gotham rule. And Tim’s heart stutters in anticipation, because if Batman can make an exception for Duke, then maybe…? 

It’s pure luck that he catches Bruce alone in the cave. He glances around, looking for Cass in the shadows, or maybe Damian lurking somewhere nearby, but no, they’re alone. 

“Something bothering you, Tim?” Bruce asks. Tim startles, a little, goes to deny it, but then catches himself.

“I– I need to tell you something,” he says eventually. Bruce pauses in his typing, turns to look at him.

“Oh?”

Tim tries not to fidget. He fails. “I’ve been lying to you,” he admits, voice quiet.

“About what?” Bruce’s voice is hard, but it’s not accusing or angry. Just questioning.

“I– Uh, I…” He takes a breath, shakes his head, and blurts out, “I’m not human!” 

Silence. “What?” Bruce’s voice is flat. Almost… disbelieving, if Tim had to put a label on it.

“I’m part dragon,” Tim tells him, the words coming out in a rush. “On, uh, my dad’s side. It’s super diluted, so when when my dragon blood didn’t start manifesting when it was supposed to, we assumed that I just… wasn’t? But turns out I was just a late bloomer, and, uh, I probably should have told you? But you had your no metas rule and I really didn’t want to stop being Robin, and I think I was worried you would have kicked me out, even though I’m pretty sure now you wouldn’t have, and I wasn’t ever going to tell you but then Duke happened and I–”   
“Tim,” Bruce says, raising a hand. Tim shuts up. “It’s okay.” He lets out a breath. “I  _ do _ wish you had told me before, but I’m not mad at you. It’s okay.”

It’s… okay? It’s just…  _ okay _ . Tim doesn’t know what to say to that, after years of believing pretty strongly that it  _ definitely wasn’t going to be okay _ . 

“I have to say, I don’t know much about dragons,” Bruce says. It takes a moment for Tim to register the question in his statement.

“I don’t know as much as I should,” he says, a little apologetic. “My parents never told me a lot of it, because they didn’t think it was relevant, but then…” He shrugs. “Well. But I can tell you what I  _ do _ know, and the things I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out?”

Bruce nods, and gestures to the seat beside him. Tim settles down, sitting on his feet, and, after a moment’s consideration, reaches back to unclasp his suit, allowing his wings out. He stretches them, sore after yet another day of confinement, and Bruce’s eyebrows raise just a little, betraying his surprise. Tim smiles a little, small and uncertain and a little shy, and wraps his wings forward around him like a blanket. 

“Is that why you’re always walking around with something wrapped around you?” Bruce asks, gesturing to his position. 

“A little? Mostly, it’s just that I’m cold. Ice dragon blood, you know.”

“I see,” Bruce says. “Tell me about it.”

Tim relaxes a little, and begins to speak. Bruce listens attentively, asking questions and clarifying points, never pushing too hard or being too invasive, and yeah, Tim thinks, this is definitely okay. 

* * *

He stands atop Wayne Tower, Batman at his side, in his new suit for the first time, his stomach churning in excitement. Bruce’s face is impassive as ever, but his mouth is quirked just ever-so-slightly in that familiar Batman smile. 

“Go on,” he tells Tim. Tim bounces on his toes a couple time, standing on the edge of the building, and takes a deep breath. His wings slide out of the slits in the suit, and he stretches them wide, feeling the cool night breeze against leathery skin. 

He steps forward, and falls for a moment before his wings catch him, and then he’s soaring up, and up, an unquenchable laugh bubbling up in his chest. He circles above the tower, looking down at Batman below, smiling up at him. He waves back, and then flies up, until he breaks the constant cloud cover over Gotham and catches a glimpse of the stars overhead, shining and inumerable.

His second flight is far more memorable than his first.

**Author's Note:**

> fic title is from icarus by paola bennet!


End file.
